Hazardous Company
by RangerMyra
Summary: When the three Musketeers are called to the garrison by their captain in the early hours of the morning it cannot be a good sign. D'Artagnan!whump and protective big brothers.
1. Chapter 1

_The Musketeers belong to Alexandre Dumas, I'm just borrowing them_.

**Chapter One**

"It's too cold for this," Porthos complained loudly as he walked into the yard at the centre of the Musketeers' garrison. The sun had barely started to lighten the sky when the messenger from Captain Treville had awoken three of his best men from their beds, requesting their immediate presence. Although when the captain requested one's attendance, it was safe to assume that the summons was more of an order than a suggestion.

"You're getting soft in your old age," Aramis jabbed slyly.

"Oi, I'm not much older than you, friend," Porthos growled, before a slight smiled lifted the corner of his mouth. "I must say, that's an unusually colour your hair is beginning to turn at the temple there. Not a bad look. Makes you seem wiser." Porthos had to stifle a chuckle as Aramis drew a dagger and used its blade to see his reflection, checking for the grey hairs Porthos had been hinting at.

Athos kept quite about his friends antics, only rolling his eyes as the smallest trace of a smirk tugged at his lip. He had not been too please to have been woken as such an hour either, but the leader of he group reasoned that his captain would not have sent for the three best soldiers in the regiment at such an ungodly hour if it weren't important. The three of them, along with d'Artagnan had just completed a particularly difficult mission, having tracked a suspected English spy to a small coastal town three days ride from Paris. They had only just arrived back in the city and retired to their respective lodgings hours earlier. As the three men drew closer to Treville's office the captain himself appeared at the door.

"Follow me," was all he said before leading the way further into the maze that was the Musketeer garrison. The three men fell silently into line behind their commanding officer, curious as to what he wanted from them, but knowing from his shut off demeanour not to question him just yet. As they turned another corner, Aramis realised where they were headed.

"Why are you leading us to the infirmary?"

Treville's steps faltered slightly as the Spaniard's query. His continued silence began to worry Athos. "Captain?" A slightly frustrated sigh was all the response he received before the head of the regiment stopped outside, as Aramis had suspected, the door of the infirmary.

"Now, I don't want you all to lose your heads at what I have to show you. Can you promise me that?" Athos didn't even bother answering his captain's question before pushing past him and into the infirmary. The sight in front of him made the man freeze in his place.

"Athos, what..." Porthos' words died on his lips as both he and Aramis also pushed past the captain and Athos to find a beaten, bruised and bleeding d'Artagnan lying on the surgeon's table, two other musketeers hurriedly trying to patch up his wounds. Aramis gave a quick glance back at Athos' stricken features before moving surging forward into his role as a medic. He hurriedly took stock of the young man's wounds while asking the musketeers already assisting him what they had found so far. Porthos was about to step forward and help the marksman in patching up their comrade when he saw Athos turn on Treville out the corner of his eye.

"What happened?" He ground out through his teeth.

"Honestly? I don't know," Treville said, holding up a hand to stop either Athos or Porthos from interrupting. "I was woken about an hour ago by one of the night guards. Apparently our young friend here stumbled up to the gates of the garrison before collapsing. The guards brought him here before fetching me and then three of you. A far as I'm aware he hasn't woken up yet." Before the two men could ask anymore questions, they were interrupted by Aramis' voice.

Aramis was vaguely aware of the other men talking at the door but he only had eyes for the youngest of the group. He wasn't sure how their youngest brother had come to be in such a state but the questions of how and why could wait. Right now he need to put his medical knowledge to good use. Taking stock of what supplies he had around him and what the other two men tending to d'Artagnan had already done, he quickly started giving orders.

"I need warm water, this basin has gone cold," he stated after testing the liquid with his finger. "And clean bandages and a needle and thread." While the men bustled about completing his orders, Aramis started inspecting the Gascon and making a mental list of injuries. Two bleeding head wounds, can't feel any break in the skull, but a few nice sized bumps. One pupil dilated too far, most likely a concussion. Bruising to the face over right cheekbone and left side of the jaw, split lip, bruising around the throat (possibly from a strangulation attempt?). Right shoulder dislocated and right wrist sprained. Bruising appearing on left arm. Rope burns on both wrists. Three, no four broken ribs, likely more cracked and bruised. Shallow cut along left side of chest (from a sword?) will need stitches. Stab wound to abdomen. No dark blood and from its position highly unlikely any internal organs have been hit. Will also need stitches. Musket wound to left thigh. Round went straight through missing the bone (thank God for small mercies). Will need to be stitched. Left knee severely bruised and swollen. Possibly dislocated at some point but has been put back in place. Right ankle is sprained. Doesn't seem too bad but will need to be bound and rested.

Aramis' clinical observations of the situation were interrupted by a pained groan from the man laying on the table.

"d'Artagnan?" Aramis asked, his hand going to the young man's hair to try and soothe him. "d'Artagnan, can you hear me? I need you to try and open your eyes for me." Despite his ministrations to try and calm the younger man, Aramis began to worry as d'Artagnan began to struggle.

"Athos, Porthos, I need you to hold him down while I stitch these wounds and try to calm him down. If he struggles any more he's just going to do himself further harm."

Treville and the other two musketeers in the room left quietly as the three friends all began working to heal and calm their youngest. As the captain closed the door behind him he couldn't help but think that once those three men found out who had don't harm to the youngest of their group, he would almost feel pity for the responsible party. A pained cry sounded from inside the room, interrupting his thoughts. No, the leader of the musketeers thought. I will not pity whoever did this to d'Artagnan. Whatever happens to them they will truly deserve.

**_This is my first fanfiction so any and all reviews and constructive criticism are welcomed and encouraged. I hoped you've enjoyed my story so far. _**


	2. Chapter 2

_Alexandre Dumas and the BBC own the Mustekeers, I'm just borrowing them._

**Chapter Two**

Pain. That was the first thing that registered in d'Artagnan's mind as he began to rise from his unconscious state. Everything hurt. He tried to remember what had happened to him but all that would come to mind were staggered images of fists and boots pounding at him from all angles. Slowly, the young man became aware of hands on him and he began to panic, fearing his assailants had returned. The boy began to thrash around, as much as his weakened state would allow, determined not to give in to his attackers. Quickly, two hands turned to six as somebody gently held his legs still and another pair of hands grasped his wrists, carefully pressing them to his chest. The last pair of hands found their way to his hair, fingers running through the sweaty locks as calm words began to break into his semi conscious mind.

"-ok, boy, you're going to be ok. Just calm down. You are safe now." Vaguely, d'Artagnan registered somebody speaking to him. Just who the voice belonged it, his muddled mind could not comprehend. Still, he knew that it was the voice of someone he could trust and the young man took comfort in that as he drifted back into the depths of unconsciousness.

The three friends relaxed their grip on the Gascon slightly as he calmed with Athos' words and fell back into unconsciousness. Aramis took a calming breath before launching back into his work.

"I need you it grab those cloths and the warm water," Aramis addressed his friends. "Start cleaning him up. We need to make sure we find all his injuries. I'm going to start stitching the wound in his stomach." After carefully washing the wound with alcohol he had found amongst the other medical supplies, Aramis carefully but deftly began to stitch closed the hole in d'Artagnan's side. As see as he was done there, the sharpshooter-turned-surgeon moved across to the gunshot wound in the boy's thigh before tending to the cut to his chest and the still weeping head wounds. By the time he was able to put down his needle and thread, Athos and Porthos had finished cleaning the mud and blood from the rest of their friend's body. Having found no new injuries in need to stitching, Aramis announced that it was time to put the lad's shoulder back into place.

"Porthos, can you sit him up and hold him from behind. Athos, I need to hold his legs still, just in case he wakes up. I don't want him ripping any of his stitches. This is going to hurt."

As the three friends moved into position, d'Artagnan stirred slightly, a weak groan escaping his lips. Aramis sent up a quick prayer that the poor boy would stay unconscious for this but it was not to be. As the medic took hold of his arm and began to move it into position, d'Artagnan's eyes flickered open. Feeling the pain in his arm intensify as Aramis readied to push it back into its socket, the boy began to struggle; attempting to move away from the source of his discomfort.

"I'm sorry," Aramis said as he quickly moved the limb back into place. D'Artagnan's strangled cry of pain before he promptly passed out again brought tears to the eyes of the men who had adopted him into their little family. Silently, Aramis reached for bandages and ointment to bind the boys arm in place and wrap his other injuries after covering the broken sections of skin with the cream to try and prevent infection. He also made sure to tightly wrap the injured knee and sprained wrist and ankle after caring for the rope burns on the boy's arms. Eventually he was done and all three of the musketeers slumped visibly with exhaustion. The sun was now filtering through the clouds outside, filling the room with dull light and Athos guessed they had been at work for a good few hours. Looking at his three comrades, he took charge.

"Porthos, help me move d'Artagnan over to the bed. Then I want you to help Aramis get cleaned up and make sure he eats something." Porthos did as he was asked, carefully cradling the boy, who despite their best efforts to feed him up, was still far too light, in his arms and moved him across to the bed at the other end of the room. He placed him gently on he mattress as Athos arranged the pillows and sheets around him.

Although Porthos had no desire to leave d'Artagnan's side, one look at Aramis had him moving to do as their leader had asked. The spaniard was slumped on the stool where he had collapsed soon after tying off the last of the bandages. He looked pale and drawn after the hours of work and was staring down at his hands in his lap, still stained with their young friend's blood.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up," Porthos said quietly as he wrapped his hand around Aramis' upper arm, gently pulling him to his feet. The two men let after one final glance back to where Athos sat, running a cool cloth over d'Artagnan's neck and forehead. The boy hadn't developed a fever as such, but he was slightly warm to the touch and the older man hoped to fend off the heat before it truly took hold. Knowing that Aramis believed the boy to have a concussion, Athos decided to try waking him, afraid that if he slept too long he may not wake up. Refreshing the towel in his hand, the senior musketeer wiped his friend's brow while speaking to him quietly. Gradually, d'Artagnan began to stir. "That's it boy. Open your eyes." Athos continued to talk to him as he slowly blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light in the room.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan's voice was little more than a whisper, but Athos heard it none the less. He put his hand on the back of the boys neck and eased he head up, bringing a cup of water to his lips.

"Drink slowly, d'Artagnan." Once the boy had taken a few tentative sips, Athos laid him back down. It was then that Aramis and Porthos returned to the room. Upon seeing his patient awake, Aramis smiled.

"You gave us quite a fright." Aramis said, mostly to distract the boy while he checked on his wounds.

"Where am I?" d'Artagnan asked quietly, eyes watching Aramis as he worked.

"Thought you'd recognize the infirmary by now," Porthos chuckled quietly as he sat on the other side of the bed. "You certainly wind up here often enough. Though usually not with such serious and unexplained injuries. What happened, lad?"

Before they could get a response out of him, the boys had fallen back to sleep. Porthos frowned and seemed about to wake him again before Aramis stopped him.

"Let him sleep for a couple more hours before we wake him again," the medic said. "He seemed alert enough but I still would like to wake him regularly for a while to make sure those head injuries didn't do any unseen damage."

Everyone was quite for a moment before Athos shifted to stand. "The two of you stay with him. I'm going to talk to the captain. See if he has any new information on what happened to our young friend."

With that, Athos left and Porthos and Aramis settled in to watch over their little brother.

_**Wow, I'm a little overwhelmed by the respons to this story after only one chapter. Thank you all so much. Once again, any reviews and constructive criticisms are welcome.**_


	3. Chapter 3

_The Musketeers are the property of Alexandre Dumas and the BBC._

**Chapter Three**

When d'Artagnan came to next, it was to the sound of his friends hushed conversation over his bed.

"So no one saw anything?" Porthos

"Not as far as Treville could find out." That was Athos.

"I guess we'll just have to wait for the boy to tell us himself what happened." And Aramis completed the set.

Before their conversation could continue, a groan of pain sounded from the bed.

"Hey there, sleeping beauty," Aramis greeted the boy in a soft voice. "How are you feeling?"

D'Artagnan hesitated for a second before answering. "I'm ok."

The three musketeers looked at each other in disbelief. Athos put his hand to d'Artagnan's forehead. "He's not warm enough to be delirious with fever. He must have hit his head harder than we thought."

"We know you're not ok, d'Artagnan," Aramis said in a stern, but by no means unkind, voice. "Now tell me, what hurts?"

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to reply but was instead wracked by a coughing fit that shook his whole body, upsetting many of his injuries. Between the coughs and lancing pain, he tried to suck in a breath but that was becoming increasingly difficult. Vaguely, the Gascon was aware of his friends gently sitting him up and bringing a cup of water to his lips, trying to help ease his coughing. Eventually the wracking subsided and d'Artagnan was allowed to collapse back against his pillows. Slowly, he evened his breathing before again opening his mouth to reply to Aramis' question.

"Truly, nearly every part of me hurts," he rasped carefully. "But I'm ok. I'm alive."

The older men sat in silence for a moment before Porthos managed to speak. "Who did this to you, lad?"

"It was Red Guards," d'Artagnan told them. He continued talking before they could interrupt. "After we parted ways last night, I was walking to my room here in the garrison when I ran into the captain. He had some reports he needed delivered to the palace for the King to address first thing in the morning. I was still feeling restless after our long ride and thought a stroll in the cold night air might relax me so I offered to deliver them on behalf of the captain." The boy stopped there as his breath hitched as another cough tried to make its way from his chest. Athos was right there, gently lifting his head and guiding water to his lips again. He sipped at the cool liquid slowly before resuming his story.

"I made it to the palace and delivered the reports without any trouble, but as I was leaving, I came to pass the Red Guards barracks. There was a large group of them who seemed to be returning from a night of drinking. They saw me and recognised me immediately. One of them commented to me that I kept hazardous company and told me they were going to teach me what happens to children who play with musketeers."

D'Artagnan's voice caught in his throat and all that came from his lips was a pained sob as he turned his face away from his friends. The elder three musketeers looked to each other, guilt building in the pit of their stomachs. Athos reached forward, brushing d'Artagnan's hair back and moving his face back towards his friends. Using his thumb, the older man brushed tears off the boy's cheeks before speaking to him. "I'm sorry, that should not have happened to you. Your friendship with us has put you in danger." Aramis and Porthos both moved forward in their seats, needing to make physical contact with their young friend. After a few moments, d'Artagnan calmed himself enough to speak again.

"You're sorry? This is my own fault. I was weak and could not defend your names. I tied to fight the guards but there were too many. As they beat me they called you names, saying you were all weak and that you mustn't be such great soldiers as the king gives you credit for if your apprentice was so useless in a fight. I tried to defend myself, to defeat them and protect your honour, but I was not good enough. I am sorry. I failed you. I understand if you cannot stand to look at me any more."

As he finished his speech, d'Artagnan attempted to sit himself up but only succeeded in pulling on his stitches and aggravating his bruised and broken ribs. Aramis was there as his vision started to darken from the pain, helping him to lay back down. Athos ran his fingers through his hair in frustration while Porthos stood and started pacing, unable to sit still any longer.

Aramis was the next to speak, his voice stern and brooking no nonsense as he looked the injured young man straight in the eyes. "Answer me one question, d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony. How many men set upon you last night?"

D'Artagnan looked away from Aramis' gaze before mumbling his answer so quietly that only the man right I front of him had any chance of hearing him. Aramis did not keep the information to himself for long though, he frustrated shout loud enough go be heard by a pair of musketeers passing outside the door. "You counted nine you say?! And are upset for not winning the fight?" The medic sighed in frustration as Porthos took his turn to speak. The large man lowered himself to the bed so he was at the same height as d'Artagnan. "Lad, even I would struggle to defeat so many men. And that's in a fair fight. I'm sure nine Red Guards with their minds softened by drink would not fight honorably. It says a lot about your skill and our training that you are even still alive to tell the tale after such an attack!" Porthos was silent for a moment before pulling the younger man into a strong hug. "The mere thought of losing you to those wretched excuses for humans is enough to stop my heart," he whispered into the boy's ear. "I promise you, I will find each and every man who laid a hand upon you and make them pay." Aramis could be heard voicing his agreement to the larger man's promise. The only person still silent at this point was Athos.

The leader of their little group stood at the window, looking out to the garrison yard below. He took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh sent of impending rain on the air in an attempt to calm the storm that was brewing within him. After a few more moments he became aware of his friends eyes boring into his back, waiting to hear what he had to say on the topic at hand. Taking one more deep breath, he turned and walked back to d'Artagnan's side.

"You did nothing wrong. You are a good soldier and a great musketeer. Know that what those men said was nothing but lies. We are proud of you, I am proud of you. It is no fault of yours that this has happened. The blame for this attack must lie with us. Being good musketeers means we have made many enemies. I am just sorry that you were punished for your friendship with us."

D'Artagnan looked between his friends, in awe of the strength of their feelings for him. He opened his mouth to tell them as much but a yawn made its way past his lips before his words could be spoken.

A small smile broke through Athos' grim facade. "You don't need to say anything," the older man said, brushing hair from d'Artagnan's eyes. "Rest now. We can talk later." Athos ran his fingers through the boy's hair, an action his own mother had done when he was ill as a child. Gradually, under the man's ministrations, the young Gascon drifted off to sleep, although the expression of pain never completely left his face. Once they were sure their brother was asleep, the three older musketeers resumed talking amongst themselves.

"The Cardinal's men have gone too far this time. Challenging a musketeer to a duel is one thing. Attacking the youngest member of the regiment, and an unprovoked attack at that; we cannot allow this to pass unpunished."

The other two looked to Athos as he finished his small speech.

"So how are we going to go about this?" Porthos questioned, although the glint in his eye clearly showed that he hoped the answer to involved completely and thoroughly beating the snot out of the Red Guards responsibly for d'Artagnan's current state of invalidity.

"I'm going to speak to Treville before we do anything. He can petition the King to have the responsible parties punished accordingly. And if that doesn't work, we go to plan 'B'." Athos' smirk when speaking of 'plan B' had Porthos and Aramis answering him with smiles of their own.

"Part of me actually prefers plan 'B'," Aramis said in a slightly wistful tone.

Athos couldn't help but nod in agreement. "Trust me, I'd rather go strait to challenging and humiliating these men too. But we should give Treville and the king a chance to see justice done in the public eye. And just imagine the damaging effect this will have on the Cardinal's influence over His Majesty. I cannot see a senseless attack on one of his favourite Musketeers being taken lightly."

Their conversation was again interrupted by a faint moan of discomfort rom the bed as d'Artagnan shifted in his sleep. The boy did not awaken though, quickly settling again at Athos' touch.

"Aramis, he's starting to feel a little warm," Athos said with concern.

Aramis reached forward to press a hand to the boy's forehead and frowned at the rising heat he found. "He's definitely warmer than earlier. I'll give him something for it when he wakes up next. For now, keeping up with the damp cloth should help."

"We'll if you've everything under control here, I'm going to speak with Treville again. He needs to know that the Red Guards are to be held accountable for this. I won't be gone long."

Athos ran his fingers through d'Artagnan's hair once more before slowly heading for the door, hesitant to let their little trouble magnet out of his sight.

**_I just wanted to thank you all again for your amazing support. Special shout out to Tidia for you input. Also, an apology in advance, chapter four may take an extra day to complete. I'm not 100% happy with my writing on that one and want to spend a little extra time tweaking it. In saying that, I will try not to keep you hanging. Once agin, please review :)_**


	4. Chapter 4

_The Musketeers are the property of Alexandre Dumas and the BBC, I'm just borrowing them._

**_Chapter Four_**

"You pathetic Musketeer pup. You're not worthy to walk the same streets as the mighty Red Guards. We'll teach you not to strut around this city like you own it, you arrogant wretch." D'Artagnan barely registered the taunts and slander the guards threw at him. His entire being was consumed by the pain radiating from his very core. Everything hurt. He had tried to defend himself, he really had, but there were just too many. He had already been cut and stabbed by two men's swords. Another had fired his musket into the young Gascon's thigh when had tried to escape from their clutches. One man had his arm pulled behind his back and d'Artagnan heard himself gasp as the limb popped from its socket. He was determined not to scream for these men but, even if he had wanted to, the youngest Musketeer doubted he could have taken a large enough breath to muster such a sound. While he had been restrained from behind, more men were attacking him from in front and from both sides. Punches and kicks rained down from all angles and he could tell he would be a variable artwork of black and blue bruises in the morning. 'That's if you live that long,' a small voice said from the back of his head.

Porthos refreshed to towel in his hand before replacing it on the fevered brow of the young man laying in front of him. Treville and Athos had left for the palace over an hour ago to seek an audience with the king. Upon hearing the identity of his youngest recruit's attackers, their captain had decided to try and speak to the king without the cardinal present.

"It's best that we go now to seek audience," the Musketeer's captain had stated. "If we arrive unannounced the cardinal may not have time to attend the meeting, or at the very least, he will not be able to invent some ridiculous excuse for the actions of his men." With that the captain and his lieutenant had left the garrison.

In the hour that had passed, d'Artagnan's fever had steadily risen. It was not yet high enough to be a huge concern to Aramis, but is was enough to give the boy some restless dreams. Either Porthos or Aramis had made sure to remain at his side at all times I case he became too restless and risked aggravating his injuries.

Aramis had his hands fisted in his hair as he paced. While the fever wasn't yet too high, he still wanted to know what was causing it so he could attempt to cut it off before it got any worse. He strode forward to the bed and lifted the sheet before gently feeling around the wounds again.

"I know you turn into a complete mother hen whenever one of us is injured but this is ridiculous." Porthos' rumbling voice startled the medic for a moment. They had mostly sat in a companionable silence while watching over their brother. "That's the third time you've checked on those wounds since Athos left." Aramis let the larger man's implied question hang in the air for a moment before sighing.

"His fever is beginning to both me. I don't know what's causing it, which means there's not much I can do to except let it run it's course. I was nearly hoping one of his injuries would start to show signs of infection. I'd have a clear target then, something I can combat, but they're all fine."

As if on queue, a rattling cough came from d'Artagnan, seeming to work its way out from deep in his chest. The young man tried to curl up on himself to cushion the pain the hacking brought to his ribs but Porthos moved to hold him still as Aramis' eyes lit up.

"That's it!" He exclaimed quietly. "Stupid, stupid. How did I miss that?" Porthos' eyes followed Aramis as the spaniard turned to the cupboard of medical supplies on the back wall and pulled out a jar of ointment.

"Do you feel like explaining or am I just going to guess what important discovery you've made?" Aramis looked up, a surprised expression on his face as though he had actually forgotten that the other man was still there.

"It was near freezing late last night and early this morning and, as a result, our dear d'Artagnan has gone and caught himself a cold. That explains he coughs and fever."

Porthos looked at the young man in the bed, unconvinced of Aramis' deduction. "A cold? A common little bug has him burning with fever? I find that hard to believe."

"Ordinarily, I'm sure it would barely even register to him that he was sick but in his weakened condition, d'Artagnan's body doesn't have the strength to fight even a common cold."

"So what do we do?" Porthos couldn't stand seeing the his little brother in such a defenceless state and was struggling with the inability to be of assistance. He wasn't a healer like Aramis. He couldn't sew wounds as neatly and he couldn't easily remember what combinations of herbs should be used to treat any ailment. Aramis could see the look of longing on Porthos' face and knew the man needed something he could do to help.

"I'm going to put this on his chest to help him breath easier," Aramis said, raising the jar in his hand. "But the best thing to do is keep him cool like you have been. When he wakes up I'll give him something for the fever and if we can get him to eat something that will help as well." He looked apologetically to Porthos before continuing. "Other than that, all we can really do is wait."

Treville was as angered by the attack on his newest soldier as his three best men were, though he did not speak his thoughts out loud. He had been the reason the young man had been out so late at night and in the vicinity of the Red Guard's lodgings. The musketeer captain could not help but feel guilty. Part of him knew that there was little he could have done but there was a voice in his mind that insisted he should have waited up to see the young man arrive back from his errand. That if he had done so, he would have noticed that d'Artagnan was taking far longer than he should have. The rational part of his mind however, was insisting that he shouldn't have had to worry the young man and that the blame laid wholly and solely with the Cardinal and his sorry excuse for soldiers.

As Treville and Athos neared the King's chambers, Treville eyed the other man carefully. "I don't need to tell you to watch your tongue and allow me to do the speaking, do I?" he questioned.

"Of course not, Sir," Athos replied without a moments hesitation. "Although, that the reason it was I who accompanied you, and not Porthos or Aramis."

"Of course." Their conversation was silenced as a guard opened the doors and the two musketeers strode forward to address their king.

**_Ok, so I know I said this chapter might take longer but I've suddenly had words pouring out my fingers quicker than I can type them and I couldn't keep it all to myself. Yay for inspiration :)_**


	5. Chapter 5

_The Musketeers belong to Alexandre Dumas and the BBC._

**_Chapter Five_**

"No- wrong. You're... no."

Porthos was still siting by d'Artagan's bedside when the boy began dreaming again. Although he could only understand a word here and there of the fevered mumblings, the musketeer was reasonably sure that the nightmare was partially memories of the previous evening's attack. Aramis had left a few minutes ago to fetch some broth so that they could attempt to wake their brother and get him to eat something. Porthos couldn't stand to listen to the scared and pained sounds coming from the bed in front of him and he gently began speaking to d'Artagnan, hoping to both wake him and calm him down.

"Open your eyes, lad," he said, one hand wrapped around the boy's arm, providing a real and grounding weight, while the other ran through his sweaty hair. "Can you wake up for me? You're safe now. I won't let anyone hurt you again."

"P'thos?" The weakness of the young man's voice was enough to nearly break the older brother's heart.

"Aye lad, it's me. Aramis has gone to get you something small to eat. Do you think you can keep your eyes open until then?"

The small nod he received in answer brought a smile to his face.

"P'thos? Water?" Still smiling, Porthos lifted d'Artagnan's head slightly and brought a cup of water to his parched lips. That's was how Aramis found them when he returned, a bowl or warm broth in his hand.

"How are you feeling?" the medic asked, putting the bowl down on the bedside table and pulling back the sheet covering his patient to check for any blood seeping through the bandages.

D'Artagnan licked his dry lips before replying. "Tired... Hot... Sore."

The short answers alone were enough for Aramis to know how bad the usually talkative boy was fairing.

"That's to be expected after all you've been through. Do you think you can manage a little food?"

Even the thought of food had d'Artagnan's stomach doing flips but he knew Aramis wouldn't have suggested it if he didn't thing it would help, so the Gascon nodded his head before trying to sit himself up slightly. It didn't take long to realise that he didn't have the strength for even such a little movement when his muscles promptly gave out on him and the young man found his limbs to be heavier than lead.

Having anticipated this, Porthos was already on his feet, having shed his weapon belts. He eased the sick child into a sitting position before sliding in behind him. With d'Artagnan pressed securely to Porthos' chest, Aramis picked up the broth and a spoon before bringing some to the boy's lips. The smell of the broth right under his nose nearly made him gag but he opened his mouth and swallowed the first mouthful. Gradually, Aramis and Porthos helped their little brother to eat a few more mouthfuls of what could barely be classed as food before the youngster began to drift back to sleep. Aramis put the bowl aside with a sigh.

"He already weighs too little for a boy his age," Aramis sighed, bringing his hand to d'Artagnan's fore head, checking on his fever. "I can hardly bare to think of the toll these injuries and illness will take on his body."

"Well he drank a fair bit of the water you left for him, with the fever medicine in it? Hopefully that will start doing its job soon." Porthos shifted slightly as d'Artagnan snuggled into his chest.

"Do you want a hand to lay him back down?" Aramis questioned, although he suspected he already knew the answer.

"No, he's alright," Porthos assured the medic. He looked down to the young man leaning on him with a loving expression one can only see between siblings. "His breathing sounds better when he's sitting up. If it helps him sleep easier I'll gladly stay here until he is fully healed."

"Well you certainly seem to make an outstanding pillow."

Both men turned to face the door. Athos couldn't help but smile at the scene that greeted him upon his return to the garrison. His mood had been soured after the meeting with Treville and the king but the sight of d'Artagnan nestled against Porthos was just too endearing not to make him feel lighter.

"Just one of my many talents," Porthos grinned as he ran his fingers through his charge's hair. His other arm was wrapped gently but protectively around the boy's waist.

The three men allowed the easy silence to linger in the air for a few moments longer before Aramis' curiosity got the best of him.

"So," he began carefully. "What happened at the Palace?"

Athos' mood darkened immediately at the question. He took at seat on the end of d'Artagnan's bed, on hand resting on the boy's uninjured ankle, before taking a breath and launching into a recap of the morning's proceedings.

"The Cardinal had obviously already been informed of his guards' activities last night. He was by the King's side when we arrived and the whole meeting was more or less doomed from the beginning. Treville told His Majesty what had happened to d'Artagnan and that he had named the Red Guards as his attackers. Of course Richelieu denied it. What we weren't ready for was the fact that he just so conveniently had the duty roster on hand and was able to used it to prove that all his guards had been at the barracks last night preparing to leave before dawn this morning for a training exercise held at the Cardinal's estate in the country. He even sent for his captain who swore before the King that no guards had been out at the late hour d'Artagnan was walking through the city. Only a skeleton crew of Red Guards are left in the city so we will be hard pressed finding someone willing to talk. All of which is a little too convenient for the Cardinal's sake if you ask me."

"And the King believed that?" Porthos asked loudly, his voice betraying his anger and disbelief. D'Artagnan stirred at the older man's rumbling voice but quickly settled again when Porthos resumed combing through his hair.

"I think he had his doubts, but with the papers right in front of him there was little to be said."

"If not the Red Guards, then who does the Cardinal think is responsible for attacking d'Artagnan?" asked Aramis.

Athos looked at his feet for a moment before answering the spaniard. "He insinuated that d'Artagnan may have picked up on some of my less admirable traits and, in his intoxicated state, may have mistaken some common muggers to have been Red Guards as he tried to stumble back to the garrison."

Porthos and Aramis were silent at that. "Richelieu must be desperate if he's willing to sink that low," Aramis finally commented.

"Treville was quick to defend d'Artagnan and assure the King of his sober state upon his eventual arrival back here early this morning. None the less, His Majesty has said that without definitive proof of the Red Guards' involvement, he is forced to agree with the cardinal's assumption. It must have been a group of common criminals who saw an opportunity to make a little coin."

All three of the senior musketeers were frustrated at the lack of justice for their young friend. Suddenly, Porthos smiled. "On the up side, this means that as soon as the lad can tell us exactly which of the Cardinal's attack dogs are responsible, we up get to move on to plan 'B'."

Aramis looked up to meet his friend's eyes, a sly glint in his own. "I always did much prefer plan 'B'."

Athos couldn't help but be amused by his two oldest friends obvious glee at even the though of hurting Red Guards. "That settles it then," their leader agreed. "We move on to plan 'B'."

**_I'm going to apologise in advance in case I don't get regular updates done over then next few days. I have youth group tomorrow night and my 21st party on Saturday so I may be a little tight for time. I will give it my best though. And once again, please review. :)_**


	6. Chapter 6

_The Musketeers belong to Alexandre Dumas and the BBC._

**_Chapter Six_**

D'Artagnan didn't wake again until late that evening. The clouds that had been threatening to rain since the night before released their load, enveloping the city of Paris in a type of serenity that only rain can do.

The boy slowly blinked open his eyes and gazed around the room, lit dully but a few candles. He could see Aramis sleeping at the table, his head rested in his folded arms. Porthos' rumbling snore could be heard from the end of the bed. The bigger man was seated on the floor, using the mattress as a pillow. A hand in his hair told d'Artagnan that Athos was seated beside him, but he didn't have enough energy to turn his head to meet his friends' eyes.

"Drink." The older man moved one hand behind the boy's neck and helped him to drink from a glass of water he placed at his lips. D'Artagnan took small sips, the cool water soothing his dry throat. Replacing the cup of water in his hand for a wet cloth, Athos began running it over d'Artagnan's neck and forehead again. The younger man's fever had been slowly but surely climbing over the course of the day, while it seemed to have settled during the evening, it had yet to break. Aramis had been worrying himself sick all day, knowing that he had done all he could but not liking that fact anymore. It had been hours after sunset, with the calming sound of rain on the roof, when Athos had finally convinced his friends to rest. The eldest musketeer had been made to promise that he would wake he other men if there was any change in their little brother's condition before they had finally relaxed enough to close their eyes.

Athos could see that d'Artagnan was struggling to keep his eyes open, not having the energy to stay awake for even such a short period of time. "Sleep." With that single word, the boy allowed his eyes to drift closed, knowing that he was protected.

"Aramis, wake up. His fever's broke." The medic shook off Porthos' hand before striding over the stand beside Athos. D'Artagnan was still asleep but the sweat covering his now blessedly cool body spoke the truth of Porthos' statement. The boy's fever had broken; he was going to be ok.

"Porthos," the spaniard turned to his friends, taking charge. "Get some fresh sheets for the bed. Athos, a clean nightshirt for the boy. We need to get him out of these wet clothes before he catches a chill." As the other two left to complete their tasks, Aramis sat d'Artagnan up, leaning the boy agains his chest so that he could manoeuvre the damp shirt off of the younger man. By the time Athos returned with one of d'Artagnan's spare shirts the old garment had been remove for the lanky form. With out his shirt on, it was painfully obvious how thin the boy was. Athos could see the look of concern on Aramis' face and knew it was mirrored on his own. They had to get some food into the boy the next time he woke, else his body wouldn't have the energy to heal itself. Porthos arrived then with fresh linen in his arms. He passed the sheets to Athos before taking d'Artagnan from Aramis' and lifting him carefully off the bed to allow the other two men to change the sheets. Porthos, like his friends, noticed d'Artagnan's weight, or lack there of, as he cradled the boy in his arms.

After a few more minutes, Aramis and Athos had the bed stripped and remade, but as Porthos was about to lay the boy down, a painful, rattling cough made its way from d'Artagnan's chest.

"Sit him up for a moment, Porthos. I'll get some extra pillows." Once Aramis had arranged extra pillows behind their youngest, d'Artagnan was eased back onto them, the more upright position allowing his breathing to ease.

"Well," Athos and Porthos turned to face Aramis as he spoke after a few moments silence. "With the fever gone, he's out of danger. Now we just need to let him rest and make sure he starts eating."

"Aye," Porthos agreed. "The lad's far too light."

"His body is eating away at its self, trying to muster enough energy to heal properly. Problem is, d'Artagnan never had any extra meat to lose."

Athos' gaze was fixed on the figure in the bed when he spoke. "So long as he is alive. Anything else, we can deal with."

**_So sorry about the wait. My weekend was busier than expected (but the party rocked!) and this week is shaping up to be even worse. But all for a good cause :) Thank you for your continued support and sorry about this chapter being so small. Please review. _**


	7. Chapter 7

**_The Musteteers belongs to Alexandre Dumas and the BBC._**

**_Sorry about the delay guys. Second last chapter._**

**Chapter Seven**

The next few days were slow and painful for the three musketeers and their patient. D'Artagnan spent most of his time sleeping and when he did awaken, it was never for long. Every time he opened his eyes, it would be to one of the older men trying to coax him to eat. At first, the young Gascon agreed, despite not feeling hungry in the least. More often than not though, his stomach would rebel against the nourishment and he would be bringing it back up again soon after. The constant pain brought by the heaving and coughing had him refusing food, which in turn, upset and frustrated his brothers.

D'Artagnan had just drifted off again after once again refusing to eat when Aramis finally snapped.

"I don't know what to do with the boy anymore!"

Athos glance towards the bed as the boy lying there stirred at the shout. "Maybe we should speak of this outside?" Taking Aramis by the arm, Athos led him to the door, Porthos following close behind after one last look to check on the fitfully sleeping Gascon.

With the door shut, Aramis sighed. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."

Porthos gave Aramis' shoulder a hard squeeze. "Don't feel too bad. I'm pretty sure we all feel the same right about now."

"He's certainly not the best patient right now," Athos agreed gruffly.

"I'm just concerned at he toll his continued fasting is taking on him. He should be showing signs of improvement by now. Yes his a wounds are healing but he should be able to stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time. He needs to start eating soon or there will be little I can do for him."

"Let me talk to him." Aramis and Athos were mildly surprised when Porthos spoke up. He wasn't usually one for talking, being more a man of action, but the others conceded, not heaving any idea themselves of what to do.

Porthos re entered d'Artagnan's room and closed the door quietly behind him. For a long while, the older man just sat beside the younger, watching him sleep restlessly. After a few more minutes, small cries of pain started to make their way past the boy's lips as he drifted into a nightmare. Not being able to stand the sounds of pain and fear from his little brother, Porthos placed a strong hand on his shoulder and gave him a light shake.

"Open your eyes little brother. You're safe now. Open your eyes."

Porthos smiled as tired brown eyes locked onto his face. "You're ok, lad. Do you want some water?" At d'Artagnan's nod, Porthos slid a hand under the younger man's neck and lifted his head so he wouldn't choke on his water. After replacing the water to the side table, the large man moved to sit on the edge of the bed so he was directly within the Gascon's line on sight.

"We need to have a chat." Porthos held up a hand as d'Artagnan opened his mouth to interrupt before continuing to speak. "I know you don't feel like eating, and I know it's no fun when you bring up most of your food but you have to start trying again. The fact of the matter is you are not well and if you don't start gaining your strength back your body could never properly recover and it could seriously affect your career as a Musketeer. I don't want that and I know you don't either. So are you going to be a good little boy and make a serious effort to eat whatever our mother hen Aramis decides to put in front of you?"

D'Artagnan looked up at his friend for a moment before nodding. A huge grin spread across Porthos' face before he got up and opened the door.

"He's ready to eat," he informed the other half of their group.

Over the course of the week, d'Artagnan slowly but surely began to improve. For the first two days after his talk with Porthos, the young man still threw up more of his food than he kept down but through his determination and his brothers' encouragement was able to keep down everything that was forced upon him by Aramis in the third day. By the sixth day his good behavior as Aramis put it, in conjunction with his near constant complaining about being cooped up inside for so long was rewarded when Athos suggested they all sit in the warm sunlight that bathed the courtyard to eat their lunch. With Porthos and Athos bearing nearly all the weight of heir recovering little brother, the quartet made their way out of the infirmary in into the yard at the centre of the Musketeer garrison.

The clanging of swords and constant conversation of the other Musketeers fell into silence at the sight of the youngest of their troop. D'Artagnan, feeling their gaze on him, looked down in shame and was about to ask if they could return inside when someone started clapping. The first set of hands was soon joined by a second, then a third. Soon the entire garrison was applauding the young man in front of them. Serge, the garrison cook, shuffled past the four men with a tray of food for their lunch.

"'Bout time you were up, boy," the old man grumbled. "Rest of these darned Musketeers were right worried 'bout you."

Athos and Porthos helped their comrade to site down, Athos taking the seat next to him to ensure he didn't fall off the bench. They sat in the warm sun for nearly an hour eating and joking with each other and many other Musketeers who came by to see d'Artagnan. It was Aramis who noticed the change first, nudging Porthos with his shoulder before nodding towards their Gascon friend. D'Artagnan was very nearly asleep in his seat, leaning heavily on Athos' shoulder as his eyes drifted shut. Porthos stood from the table with a slight groan as his muscled stretched. "I think it's time we put our pup back to bed."


End file.
